


How The Demon Crowley Picked A Fight With Fate, And Taught Newt A Few Things In Between

by Epervier



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Crowley is a Little Shit (Good Omens), Humor, M/M, Mentor Crowley, Post-Apocalypse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-15
Updated: 2020-03-15
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:15:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23133028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Epervier/pseuds/Epervier
Summary: Newt Pulsifer's association with anything remotely supernatural is a thing of the past. He's done with it, finished, over it. Nowadays, he's a one hundred percent, woefullynormalloser.He still appreciates the gift basket, even if he thinks his serial killer has got the wrong guy.-A few years after the botched Apocalypse, Crowley takes on a new project, as a hobby.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley & Newton Pulsifer, Past Anathema Device/Newton Pulsifer - Relationship
Kudos: 19





	How The Demon Crowley Picked A Fight With Fate, And Taught Newt A Few Things In Between

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, I have a soft spot for dumbasses

When Newt Pulsifer, age 33, opens his front door one morning on his way to taking out the trash, only to trip over a gift basket with a creepy greeting card bearing his full name, he doesn’t worry about it. 

“What are you doing, deary?”

“Just scouring the newspapers for any announcement of a serial killer having escaped out of a nearby correctional facility during the weekend.”

“Sounds like fun. Don’t stay up too late!”

“Okay, mom.”

Alright, so he almost doesn’t worry about it. 

Past the initial surprise, though, he kind of forgets about it. The jam is good, and, as far as he’s aware, made only out of normal things, like fruit that taste like fruit and look like blood, but are probably strawberries. He doesn’t die, at any rate.

And the card actually congratulates him. It’s written right there: ‘Congratulations’. People congratulate him rarely enough that Newt takes the compliment and politely ignores the other baffling stuff it goes on to say, such as ‘for your break-up’. Newt hasn’t seen head or tail of a relationship in the past six years. He’s pretty sure his serial killer has got the wrong guy. 

Still, he displays the card on the fridge. 

It’s not until he’s collecting his stuff at his latest job that he’s reminded about it. The reminder comes in the form of a shadow that falls upon him and blocks the glare of the overhead neon light. 

“Thanks,” mumbles Newt, who has been raised a well-mannered boy. 

When the shadow doesn’t respond, he spares it a glance, to discover that a dude dressed like an old rock-star is taking his desk for a lounge spot. The glasses are a bit familiar. 

“Nerd boy,” greets the rocker. 

That’s something he gets a lot. No matter how many years go by, people keep calling him ‘boy’. It’s especially vexing when his pharmacist does it, or when a surly teenager with a piercing up his nose tries to bully him for his lunch. 

“Oh, er, the new guy, right? I’ll be done in a few—”

“Do I look like I’m here for your boring job?”

Great. A trick question. 

“Er,” says Newt. 

The old dude heaves out an explosive sigh (also something he gets a lot) and pulls down his glasses. 

“Nice contacts,” says Newt. Not what he’d expect from someone of this age, but he’s not judging. 

Looking him dead in the eye, the dude snaps his fingers. Time stops. 

Literally, time stops around them, Nancy from accounting frozen midstep with a stack of paper halfway through scattering down. This firm is kind of old-fashioned. Newt guesses it’s not for nothing he hasn’t been turned down on the spot: no high-end tech to bollocks up. 

Not that it matters much, anymore. 

“And now?” asks the rocker. 

Newt shakes his head. “No, sorry, can’t say that rings a bell.”

“And a shit memory to boot,” grumbles the rocker. “Great. Just great. Got my work cut out.”

Newt wants to take offense to that, although he has no idea why. It just sounds like a ‘principle of the thing’ kinda scenario. 

The rocker nods his head at Newt’s —well, not Newt’s anymore— mastodon of a screen. “Still with the computers?”

“Er, sort of. Technically I just got fired.”

The old rocker scrunches up a pair of dubious eyebrows. They’re very expressive. “Well, guess it says something that you keep trying, if nothing else.”

That’s actually one of the nicest things Newt has ever had someone tell him. Right there with ‘you don’t suck as a witchfinder’. “Thanks.”

A leathered foot attacks the back of his knee. “Ouch. Ouch!” says Newt, trying not to fall from his chair. 

“Don’t you forget it. Now, up.” Newt stares, gobsmacked. “Up!” snarls the rocker, who may not be a rocker after all, and must have rabies. 

Newt scrambles to his feet. 

“The name’s Crowley. You may call me Crowley. Or Boss.”

He shoves his glasses up his face and starts sauntering away. 

“Actually, I’ve changed my mind, don’t talk to me. Don’t even open your mouth. Try to keep the breathing to a minimum.”

He stops, and throws a glance over his shoulder. “You comin’ or what?”

It’s probably a bad idea, but what the heck, thinks Newt as he looks around the room. It’s not like he has a ton of options. 

“Where are we going?” asks Newt, as soon as he catches up to the guy. (It’s hard. He has long legs.) By doing so, he breaks the first rule he’s been given. 

_Damnit, not already._

“Out of this shit-hole,” announces don’t-talk-to-me Crowley, grandly. “We’re going to broaden your horizons.” It sounds very impressive.

* * *

They take over an abandoned Amazon office; which Crowley calls a ‘Lair’ with a capital ‘L’. It’s badly lit. 

“More ominous,” the Boss grumbles, when Newt asks him about the flickering bulb. Then he goes back to ignoring Newt and messaging whoever is on the other end of his conversation on his sleek black phone. Probably the mafia.

Newt wonders why anyone would want their working space to look ominous at all, but then he remembers who it is he’s talking to and shrugs it off.

The sitting arrangements are frankly appalling. There are only two chairs. Newt’s is comprised of metallic feet and a plastic-y main part he’s afraid will cave under his weight every time he parks his behind on it with the utmost care. Crowley’s actually looks comfortable, in the way that padded coffins look comfortable, but somehow Newt doubts he’ll be willing to share. Other than the chairs, there is also a desk for each of them, a mop, and no trace of electronics nor any of the other stuff someone would need to work in an office. 

He still doesn’t really know who Crowley is, or why he’s Newt’s new Boss. Or what’s their job. That kind of fishy gigs tends to find Newt more often than not. By now he’s just resigned to it. 

It would help if he could weasel out at least some details, though. Get the general picture. Newt starts feeling guilty when he’s not occupying his hands with anything for too long, like he’s cheating the system or something. (If he is, he’s not actively doing it, because Newt has no idea how one goes about cheating the system. In his mind, that makes it worse. A scoundrel, he is.)

After one too many days of losing at Angry Birds, Newt pockets his phone and musters up just enough courage to go ask questions to the Boss again. 

Newt tries to avoid drawing attention to himself if he can help it. The Boss gives off the kind of vibes that let you know you might end up biten if you catch him at a wrong time, which seems to be literally all the time. By some miracle, Newt hasn’t had to report to the hospital yet. In fact, he barely has any wound to account for, except for the bruise on his knee from that first day. That’s food for thought, Newt just isn’t clear on which thought it feeds, yet.

“Say cheese,” says the Boss as Newt sidles up next to him. Newt opens his mouth, and definitely doesn’t say ‘cheese’. In fact, he doesn’t say anything, because in that instant he is blinded by the flash of Crowley’s phone while a haughty little sound effect lets him know he just had his picture taken. 

Behind his glasses, Crowley squints at his phone. “Will do,” he decreeds. 

Of course even Newt’s picture only gets a ‘will do’. 

“Wh— wh— what was that for?” asks Newt. 

“None of your business,” says the Boss. 

Newt rather thinks it is his business. 

He scutters off without daring to ask any more questions. 

* * *

If he dies, he dies. 

* * *

It occurs to him one day that he doesn’t know if he’s getting paid.

“Am I getting paid?” He adds plenty of other stuff after that, because Newt is actually a very good spokesman when he wants to be. In his mind. 

In his mind, the Boss is blindsided by Newt’s impressive wit. He doesn’t just sit there as though he just remembered that Newt exists. 

“Sure.”

Newt retreats back to his desk. 

* * *

Maybe it’s a test. Maybe the Boss is actually a martial arts master in disguise, and he’s waiting for Newt to figure out the superpower he’s teaching him via the age-old lesson of Ennui. If that’s the case, he’s in for a disappointment. 

That’s okay. Newt’s whole life is a disappointment even to himself. He wouldn’t know what to do if that were to change. 

“I got a new job,” he tells his mom over dinner. For once her shift has ended early, which means they get to see each other. 

Newt’s mother blinks. “Already? What happened to the other one?”

“Got fired,” he says. “But this one is good!”

“Oh, well, I’m happy to hear that.” Newt waits for the ‘congratulations’ with baited breath. “Are you getting paid?”

Ouch. “Probably?”

“Oh, darling…”

“I know,” says Newt, wincing.

He helps himself to the salad.

* * *

Two snakeskin shoes stop in front of the stepladder with a decisive ‘tap’.

“What in heaven are you doing up there?!” 

Newt flinches, banging his head on the lampshade, almost taking a plunge in the process. The spare light bulb he was holding does not meet such a lucky fate.

“Changing light bulbs?” he guesses, while the lampshade bobs against his skull. 

That only makes the Boss’s scowl deepen. “Why?” he demands.

“Uuuuuh,” says Newt. “This one is dying?”

“And you’re up there, why, exactly?”

“This one is dying,” repeats Newt. 

“So?”

“We’ll be in the dark?” Newt’s voice climbs an octave or two.

“ _So?_ ”

“We can’t work in the dark?” _Also, I was bored_ , he does not add.

“Why the fuck not?” says the Boss. 

“Uh.”

“You can’t see shit, you come to me and you say you can’t see shit. Why did you not come to me and say you can’t see shit?”

“You said not to talk to you.” The old lightbulb that suddenly decides to make a triumphant return to the land of the living makes him squint. “Sir,” he adds as an afterthought.

“Lesson number one, Nerd Boy: never listen to what I say. Now get off that before you break a leg.”

“R—right!”

But Newt’s hybris gets the better of him. He pauses mid-stumble onto the next step, and well, the mysterious good-as-new bulb is radiating such a nice, soft light. It’s pretty neat. He extends the tip of a finger toward it.

“Gah!” says Newt. Hot hot hot hot hot!

On the bright side, he gets off the stepladder pretty quickly after that. Very quickly. Too quickly. It hurts. Ow. 

**Author's Note:**

> Please excuse any butchering of the english language in this, this isn't my first language and I'm flying un-betaed. 
> 
> Fun fact! I thrive on feedback. Hand me some and I promise I won't bite your fingers!


End file.
